


the love that dare not speak its name (unless your dying mother asks you if you're an arse-bandit)

by The Key To Imagine (whiskeywit)



Category: The Beatles
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:59:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10439208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeywit/pseuds/The%20Key%20To%20Imagine
Summary: Title: The love that dare not speak its name (unless your dying mother asks you if you're an arse-bandit)Rating: PG-13Disclaimer None of the people in the story are mine.WARNING!!! This story is a) crack and b) BLACK comedy, based off the typical Victorian British plays (like Oscar Wilde). Please keep in mind that this means it is disrespectful and insulting, all by intention. Do NOT read this story if you think you cannot handle it.A/N: So therefore I want to make sure you understand I do not mean any harm, not towards Paul and not towards anyone on here. The story deals with death being humorised, which under no RL circumstance can be accepted. If you've still got major problems with this, even though I have given you an expanded explanation, and want to bitch to me about it, please do so in a PM.A/N2: And quazonic was totally the enabler. The title is her courtesy as well.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Backup of old fic originally posted to the Beatles community JohnheartPaul, currently residing on key_to_imagine, currently in locked status. Summary contains the header as is on the LJ post.
> 
> Originally posted 24 MARCH 2011

The love that dare not speak its name (unless your dying mother asks you if you're an arse-bandit)  
  
 _A hospital, 1957._  
  
“Jim,” coughed Mary, her face paler than ever and her voice rather quiet, though void of any distress, which was rather surprising given her situation, “could you please take Mike out of the room with you?”  
  
Jim raised his eyebrows at first, but then was quick to nod, realising his wife was in extremely poor health and this might well be one of her last wishes. He laid his hand on Mike’s shoulder, and gently ushered him away from the bed that held the dying woman.  
  
“Come here, Paul,” she tried to raise her hand, but as she had weakened immensely over the short duration of her grave illness, it fell back down onto the embroidered blanket Jim had taken to the hospital for her so she would at least feel a little more at comfort.  
  
“Dear mummy,” Paul whined, even though he was already a fifteen year old man. He took her hand in his own. “You won’t get better.” He had instinctively said it, it fell off his tongue like his dinner had only the night before when he was hanging over the toilet bowl after having had rather too much to drink with a friend of his with the name John Lennon.   
  
Her fragile fingers closed shakily around Paul’s wrist in the same moment. “Listen,” she said, her voice loaded with a tremor that betrayed her: she was about to cry, “I need to ask you something before I die.”  
  
“Oh,” Paul’s lips were already red and pouty by nature, but now they went even redder and poutier, both in stark contrast to his face which had gone white as an expensive linen sheet. “What is it?”  
  
“Are you queer?” Mary looked up at her son like statues of Holy Mary looked up at Jesus, though she must have known in that instance Paul was by no means a proper Son of God.  
  
“W-W-What?” he stumbled, and though he turned even paler than before, he still wasn’t quite so pale he was white as chalk. “Mother!” he then nearly shrieked, when the full impact of the question seemed to hit and the panic set in. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”  
  
“Look, Paul,” and the tears were starting to stream down Mary’s face. It was only now that Paul noticed how her hair was still neatly combed, and her fake lashes were glued on with perfect precision, quite like they used to be before, except she was not wearing any make up. “I have given it some thought, but I cannot come up with the answer by myself. So you will need to tell me before I pass on.”  
  
“But why?” quailed Paul yet again. “Why do you need to know anything about my sexuality, dear mother?”  
  
“I have had my suspicions for a long time,” Mary cried, “please don’t make this any harder on me than it already is! Just answer, my dear boy!”  
  
Now Paul’s eyes were swelling with tears as well, and the tip of his nose reddened in a most awful fashion. “I am, mother, I _am_ but hereby I promise you I shall never, ever tell anybody else. I shall never act upon my feelings, but marry a girl named Linda instead.” He blew his nose with the rather girly kerchief he had taken with him, and Mary recognised it as her own instantly.  
  
“It is all right, Paul,” Mary wailed then, though still politely quiet, for this was–after all–a hospital ward. She also kept patting the back of Paul’s hand, because she was too weak to give him a hug. “You can do this. Do not give in to temptation.”   
  
Then she was done crying, and Paul handed her the kerchief. “I always knew,” she sniffled, shaking her head, “poor boy, my poor boy.” She dried her last tears, for they were dreadful tears of shame for her own son, and then told Paul, “have Jim and Mike come in again.”  
  
And so Paul did, and so the family was reunited one last time, as that night would prove to be entirely too long for dear Mary.   
  
Her poor, cursed son went over to his friend’s house that same evening, by means of a place to stay, and he happened on his first kiss by another man, whom he loved and would never cease to love, except they both backstabbed each other after they got famous and the entire ordeal was quite nasty.   
  
At least Paul still had the loving memories of Mary and her rather sensible warning that he should never ever let himself be involved with the love that dare not speak its name.   
  
  
**The end of the only act of what is not even really a play.**


End file.
